


Home and Hearth

by quiettimenotriottime



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha Sherlock, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Sex, Knotting, M/M, Male Lactation, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega John Watson, Self-Lubrication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-23 21:33:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12517032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quiettimenotriottime/pseuds/quiettimenotriottime
Summary: Sherlock and John had gotten married in the spring. One thing had led to another and there'd been a string of tiny, tousle haired tots. Said sweet little infants had run rampant all over 221B, cheerfully pulling each other's hair and gnawing on the furniture, while dad complained bitterly of boredom and flounced off all over London when he'd the chance, and mum shouted about baby proofing and no you can't keep toes in the bread bin Sherlock you berk.





	Home and Hearth

**Author's Note:**

> I was looking through my files today and apparently I wrote this three years ago but never posted it. Not sure why. I'm not even really in this fandom anymore, but oh well.

Sherlock and John had gotten married in the spring. One thing had led to another and there'd been a string of tiny, tousle haired tots. Said sweet little infants had run rampant all over 221B, cheerfully pulling each other's hair and gnawing on the furniture, while dad complained bitterly of boredom and flounced off all over London when he'd the chance, and mum shouted about baby proofing and _no you can't keep toes in the bread bin Sherlock you berk._

They popped out, one after the other, easy as you please, charming, downy little terrors with gummy smiles. Sherry had only four teeth, which he frequently employed in chomping on his sister- the resulting tantrum was always legendary. Harry, dimpled and golden fleeced, was the boss of the little troupe and almost as good at scolding as John. She was approaching five and soon to be going to school, definitely a comprehensive despite the frosty disapproval of her uncle. John had put his foot down though, bless him, none of his kids were going to those cold-hearted institutions where the children subsisted on stale bread and barley water and had to get up at three in the morning to swim in a frozen pond. Sherlock tactfully pointed out that John might be getting confused with Jane Eyre, which had resulted in quite a lot of expletives and the destruction of some perfectly good mould cultures (but rather brilliant sex afterwards, which almost made up for it). So Harry was, quite definitely, going to a comprehensive.

On a completely unrelated note, funding for said state institution may or may not mysteriously increase exponentially within the next year. Several teachers may also find themselves out of a job and stealthily replaced by educators uprooted from their high paying jobs in Germany and Switzerland. Nothing suspicious about it, of course- nothing that could be tantamount to meddling, no siree. Just like there most certainly were not any security cameras in the flat or Molly's apartment or Mrs Hudson's or anywhere else the children might chance to venture. 

One particular Thursday in January, John came home from work at the clinic (Sherlock was watching the kids, no cases apart from a break-in Brighton, dull) to find the flat in shambles. Finger paint on the walls, again, as if they needed any more abuse. He thought briefly about changing the wallpaper and then decided it wasn't worth the trouble. Petri dishes all over the table, something nasty festering in the corner (he'd have to have a stern word with Sherlock about that later), discarded banana peel slowly turning pungent, smashed glass vial all over the kitchen floor, although mysteriously no sound of crying. John disposed of the banana peel with a moue of distaste, retrieved the dustpan and broom and swept up the shards. He fantasised nastily about making Sherlock pick the glass off the floor with chopsticks. This cheered him up immensely.

There was a note pinned to the fridge: "Gone to park with progeny to look at ducks. Tea is in the cupboard on the third shelf. We were running low. -SH"

John was tickled by the uncharacteristically thoughtful gesture. He felt almost ready to forgive the mess in the flat. Fantasy Sherlock got to use a dustpan and broom instead.

John happily pictured his kids running around screaming their heads off while Sherlock tried to teach them about pond ecosystems. Unfortunately, they tended to listen to him, the rotten little things, hung onto his every word practically. They loved John to death, of course they did, but Sherlock was the favourite. Although John's orders were followed to the letter and snappily, military voice and all.

Hamish was twenty months old and already weaned, toddling after daddy on his chubby legs like a little traitor. At least when they were still suckling he could keep them to himself. No longer having one infant or another permanently attached to his chest was both a relief and a disappointment. He was still producing milk like a bloody leaky tap, but Hamish wasn't interested. He contemplated having another, just so he could keep it for himself. He'd probably enough to deal with, but neither of them really wanted the bother of contraception, and they'd more than enough space in their life for as many as pleased to be born. 

Chances were he was already pregnant, should be by now anyway since Hamish was almost two. He'd had the rest exactly eleven months apart, so he'd been pregnant pretty much constantly for four consecutive years, bar the two months where it was unsafe to have sex. He should really be up the duff by now, except Sherlock had had rather bad timing with cases and missed all of John's five heats. He'd had to dig out his old sex toys, purchased in London seven years ago when he'd gone off his regulation army suppressants for the required two weeks before switching to a milder hormone inhibitor. He'd rigged up a webcam on Sherlock's laptop and spent what he could of Sherlock's free time listening to silk rough cadences grated from a pale, decadent throat (John wanted to bite that throat, scrape his teeth across milk white skin until bruises bloomed like flowers), watching Sherlock flushed pink and whimpering, knotting the sweaty hollow of his fist.

He should have another heat in a week, two at the most. Long term suppressant use tends to screw up an omega's heat cycle. He'd been off them since he'd bonded with Sherlock, though, and pregnancy helped. Five seemed like a good, round number. He was almost thirty-seven- perhaps after the next he should get his tubes tied. 

* * *

 

The next day, John woke to sticky sheets. "Oh, Christ," he muttered. "Brilliant." His heat wasn't supposed to start for another three days. He'd arranged for the kids to be packed off to Mummy Holmes', where they were sure to be spoiled rotten and plied with scones and cake until they couldn't move.  It was seven in the morning, Sherlock was conspicuously absent and John was fast becoming incoherent. He fumbled for his phone on the nightstand and sent a text to the world's only consulting prat, who should've known John'd be in heat by now since he was so bloody good at knowing everything about a person. Then he sent another to Mummy asking if she'd mind terribly taking the children three days earlier.

Mummy seemed delighted and John made himself as presentable as possible, kissed his children good morning, dressed them, set them out a hurried breakfast of eggs and toast, packed their bags, and waited for the car that arrived at eight thirty on the dot, carrying an impeccably dressed Mummy in mink and pink leather gloves. 

"Oh, no, it's no trouble, I understand completely. I’ve been mated to an omega for forty years, you know." She shot John a saucy wink which would have made a prostitute blush and sallied forth with her rambunctious charges, Hamish making a nice wet spot on her coat with his eggy fingers. _I should have washed them,_ John thought, chagrined.

The flat was oddly quiet without the pitter-patter of tiny feet. John washed the plates from breakfast and scrubbed the benches and the floor. He dusted and binned all of Sherlock's experiments. Then he stripped the bed and remade it, set the dirty sheets to wash in the machine, and stripped to his shirt and socks. He rubbed his tender breasts absently and wondered what was keeping Sherlock. If the prat was blowing him off for a case John would punch him in his barmy face when he got home.  

Sherlock bounded up the stairs fifteen minutes later, bright eyed and bushy tailed. His scent wafted in, all spicy and dark and bitter sweet.

"You fucking wanker. Where have you been?"

"Awfully sorry John, Lestrade called about a locked room murder in Bristol. Terribly exciting, it was the brother, you know. Airborne poison in the lamp fixtures, brilliant."

Sherlock whipped off his scarf dramatically and flung it over the hook on the back of the door. 

John folded his arms and tapped his foot in the incensed manner of a rather angry mother hedgehog. "And you didn't think to take me?"

"Thought you'd want your sleep, since your heat started today. Although I must admit it was a trifle hard to leave with you clinging to me like an octopus You really are unfairly strong, I think I sprained a wrist."

Coat was off now, tossed haphazardly across the settee. Then he thought better of it and hung it on the door.

"You could have had Mummy pick up the kids before you left," John grumbled. 

"But you wanted to say goodbye, don't be dull, John." Shoes off, now, wriggled out of, socks dispatched soon after. 

"Yeah, ta for that, really."

"Anyway, your heat's barely started, you're not even open for business yet, so to speak-"

"Sherlock. Shut up."

Nimble fingers on obscenely tight buttons and, yes, there it was, that awful loose feeling in his belly, hot and trembling and Christ he was stiff as a poker, when did that happen. Hands over his dick to cover his modesty but Sherlock had already seen, the observant little shit. His toes curled in his socks as lovely moon pale skin hoved into view. Ooh, and those veins, pretty blue and snaking over stark tendons and firm muscles. Guh. Bugger, his shirt was damp, stupid breasts trickling milk like a bloody hose. Ow, and they were sensitive, too, hard as bloody nails and nipples aching and stiff. Stupid reaction to his stupid alpha which made no sense, really, as if a baby was going to appear in a puff of smoke or something. 

Sherlock was still babbling on about nothing, shimmying out of his tight trousers and pants and there it was, oh god, work of art it was, all fat and hard and glistening. Bam, he was instantly wet. Moisture gathering in the seam of his arse and pooling in the hollow of his thighs, and yep, there goes the carpet. Sherlock looked at him, all naked lust, face flushed and stammering, there we go, surprised him, the prick.

"Oh John, I- you- ahhhh..." Dick red and standing to attention, pearling milky slick and balls tight and heavy. John swooned a little and righted himself. 

"Bleeding buggering fuck," he muttered. "This is all your fault," he loudly accused, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring severely at the nude detective.

"I hardly think I'm to blame for your biological functions, John."

"Shut the hell up and get over here."

Sherlock was across the room and looming over him faster than John could say "unfairly long legs." Tall predatory detective all up in his space, now, and gosh did he smell good. Fingers brushed over the swell of his cheek and Sherlock stared at him with his glacier eyes. 

"John?"

"Mmmm?" Since when did his legs get so watery? John vaguely remembered being angry about something.

"I think I'd quite like to kiss you."

John rolled his eyes. "Come here, you idiot."

Sooty half-moon lashes against frost bright cheeks and soft silk curls sliding through his fingers. He tugged, and the man in his arms grunted, knees almost buckling. John smirked to himself and shut his eyes, pressing into the hot open slide of Sherlock's lush mouth. Sherlock smelled of crisp snow and the dark tang of dirt after a rainstorm. His dick was smushed against a warm thigh, swollen and weeping. Sherlock's prick was jammed against his stomach, smearing precome over his belly. 

Feeling that a little revenge was in order, John tugged on Sherlock's ringlets, sharp-like, and grabbed him by the balls. The detective wheezed and slumped heavily to his knees. He looked up at John through limpid, misty eyes. His full lips were parted, and his eyelashes were wet with melted snow. 

John hooked Sherlock under the arms and hauled him up onto the bed, beautiful clean limbs splayed, painfully erect penis red and swollen to almost full size. He fancied he could see the first signs of the knot, the flesh around the base of his penis becoming puffy and flushed.

"John," Sherlock said, voice cresting on a whine. His eyes were storm tossed and slightly feral. He looked otherworldly, Oberon in his enchanted forest. He tried to sit up and pull John to him, emitting a frustrated huff as John pushed him gently back down.

“Shut up,” John snapped, wriggling out of his underwear and sinking abruptly onto his cock. He felt it slide into him, one impossible length, the tight press of his skin pinching a little around the hard flesh. A couple of inches more, and he was there, feeling breathless and full. They sat, balls to arse, Sherlock making quiet needy noises. John clasped Sherlock's right hand in his, carefully levering himself up and sitting back down in one moist slide. He liked it this way, liked being able to set the pace. Sherlock was making abortive thrusts, hands scrabbling for purchase as he moaned. His long, pale throat was exposed in an unconsciously submissive gesture. John mapped the supple lines of his body with his eyes, gaze lingering on the dark hollows of his collarbones. A dark, primal spike of lust lanced through him. Fluid rushed thick and fast from his swollen hole, and he felt a little dribble out and glisten against Sherlock's lower abdomen. 

His face was what always drew John back, flushed and inhumanly beautiful. Wild curls spilled across his forehead, falling into lust darkened eyes.

John became aware of the swell of the knot pressing uncomfortably against his entrance just as a high, brittle cry spilled from Sherlock's throat. His flushed, damp face was twisted into an expression of exquisite agony, his eyes wide and wet. 

"John please" he slurred, sounding hoarse and desperate. "Please."

John kissed his forehead, smoothed the hair out of his eyes, and deliberately slackened. He took deep, even breaths, soothing the tension from his stomach muscles and anus.  The increased give of his body made the pressure of the knot easier to bear. He breathed through it, gaining by increments. It was a feeling of such sweet fullness that he barely noticed the stretch. 

Finally, the last few inches slipped into him, effectively sealing him off. Sherlock's firm, bulbous crown knocked against John's spongy, sensitive cervix, sending him immediately into an intense, brutal climax. He held onto consciousness by the skin of his teeth as orgasm rattled his body to pieces. The ragged scream that tore itself from Sherlock's throat seconds later spoke of an ecstasy so exquisite it was unbearable. 

John came to his senses with his face pressed to Sherlock's sweaty chest. He squirmed tiredly, his body struggling to press even closer. He could feel the first splashes of hot semen against his womb as Sherlock spent inside him. Completely untouched, his body plunged into a second orgasm, making him scream and hunch over in shock. He panted, shaken and raw as an exposed wire. 

The soft, distressed cooing of his alpha coaxed him back to the present. He quivered against Sherlock's chest like a small, frightened animal. The alpha stroked the damp curve of his spine, murmuring worriedly, fingers sliding lower and carefully testing the place they were joined for damage. He stilled Sherlock, pressed a kiss to the underside of his jaw.  "Shh," he soothed. "Just rest a little."  Here, just inside this moment, John was content to stay. Stuffed to capacity, glutted on cock and warm skin and quiet, breathy moans, he felt complete. 


End file.
